Car doors open and slam shut.
Feet pound the pavement.
They’re coming closer.
There’s another burst of gunfire, enough to keep Razor pinned.
The driver’s side door is ripped open.
The big one, Silas, lays hands on my mother.
My door flies open.
“Time to go,” says some frightening, tattooed thug.
He grabs me by the shoulder.
“Don’t you fucking touch her.”
Ruby’s sharp command is followed by the wicked crack of her pistol, and the man touching me stumbles backward, blood shooting from the side of his neck in a wicked spurt.
But he doesn’t let up.
And he doesn’t let go.
His gnarled, powerful hands grab me by the hair and my arm and he rips me out of my seat.
But I won’t let him take me that easily.
In that moment, I remember who I am — I am my father’s daughter; I know how to fight; I won’t let this man have his way with me.
“Get the fuck off me,” I scream and I sink my teeth into the flesh of his forearm, bite so deep I pierce skin and feel blood color my lips. My hands turn to fists and I punch and kick at him with everything I have. Shins, stomach, groin, throat, I strike at them all.
He releases me.
Wounded, bleeding, he takes a step back.
And raises his gun.
“If I can’t take you…” he starts.
But I refuse to stand there, shocked, while he kills me.
I leap at him, clawing at his face, kicking at him with everything I have, a ferocious tornado of uncontrolled violence.
He hits the ground with me on top, and I keep striking him. Aimless, chaotic, but enough that his blood stains my hands, his skin peels beneath my scratching, sticking under my nails.
I’m mad with bloodlust, with adrenalized fear and trauma, so deep in my warlike confusion that I hardly hear the approaching motorcycles.
At least, not until another crack from Ruby’s gun sends a bullet into the head of the man beneath me. Stops his struggling. Snaps me out of my frightful rage.
I look up.
See her holding the pistol, stoic look on her refined face.
I hear the slamming of car doors. Look to see Silas, his furious face covered in blood, running in retreat, leaping behind the wheel of his car, slamming it into gear and making a hasty retreat.
It’s only when he’s gone and my father and Snake and the others arrive on motorcycles that I realize where I am; on top of a dead man, covered in his blood, tasting a mix of his life and my own; a man that I killed.
When Ruby puts her hand on my shoulder, I whip my head so fast looking to her; paranoia and fear floods my body.
I just killed someone.
“Get away from me, please,” I shout.
A look of shocked understanding crosses her face.
She’s done this before. Many times. She’s numb to it now, but she knows what I’m going through.
My father’s the first off his bike. He races to my mom, throwing his brawny arms around her, pulling her bruised and bloody face to his chest. He cradles her, while shouting to Mack and Brewer to chase after the men who came after us and for them to send Stitch here as soon as possible.
He gives the same orders to Snake, too, but Snake isn’t listening. Just as fast as my father races to my mom, Snake races to me.
He puts his arms around me.
My cheek meets his chest.
I feel safe. Safe enough to release every emotion pent-up inside me in a howling wail against him. His shirt becomes stained with my blood, my attacker’s blood, and my tears; a wet, smeared mess of red — gory mosaic of my agony.
“Let it all out, Addie,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m here for you.”
Simple words, but they’re all the encouragement I need to vent everything inside.
I’m almost ashamed by how good it feels to be held by him. How, even amid this carnage, I’m enjoying the touch of his skin against mine. Enjoying smelling the leather and pine and motor oil scents that seem to be ingrained in him.
Then I swallow and realize I’m swallowing some of the blood of a man who is lying dead on the ground at my feet. Planting both hands on his chest, I push Snake away; I turn my head, and I retch. Retch until my stomach feels empty and I’m heaving with dry nausea as I try to expel every horrific drop.
It’s as I puke that Snake takes hold of my hair, pulls it back from my face while I expel myself onto the thirsty desert sand.
“It’s OK,” he says. “It will be OK, Addie.”
I’ve never been more of a mess. Never been more ruined. Ugly, bruised, bloody, I’m a disgusting sight, and yet Snake is looking at me with such warmth and tenderness. His voice is so deep, so calming, like an ocean I could swim in and forget all the horror I’ve just witnessed.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
His eyes open wide and I realize I must be shouting — a product of all the shooting, a deafness that thuds in my ears.
He reaches for me. Like that, I’m back in his arms. Still a frightful mess, still leaking tears on his shirt, still finding solace in his encircling arms and the touch of his chest against my cheek, still feeling shame for how good it feels for him to hold me amidst all this horror.
I could stay here forever. Want to stay here forever.
But reality intrudes.
An expletive — sharp and brutal — that
